Fumbling Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
fumbling-mist-lingering-around-angra
humor-can-get-in-under-door-while-seriousness-is-still-fumbling-at-handle-gk-chesterton
what-is-writing-after-all-except-fumbling-in-darkness-endeavoring-to-light-candle-peggy-toney-horton
government-three-fourths-parasitic-other-fourth-stupid-fumbling-robert-a-heinlein
worry-is-spiritual-nearsightedness-fumbling-way-looking-at-little-things-magnifying-their-value-anna-robertson-brown-lindsay
i-told-them-just-stop-fumbling-that-was-real-nugget-wisdom-there-bruce-kay
im-back-in-these-regions-fumbling-dark-uncertain-creation-but-its-my-one-only-world-ill-do-best-i-can-jack-kerouac
theres-tension-in-this-room-well-have-butterflies-soon-fumbling-round-in-dark-with-flashlight-architecture-in-helsinki
the-early-bees-are-assaulting-fumbling-flowers-they-call-it-easing-spring-henry-reed
character-no-longer-is-shaped-by-only-two-earnest-fumbling-experts-now-all-worlds-sage-marshall-mcluhan
instead-fumbling-with-hot-beakers-bunsen-burners-i-concentrated-on-leisurely-pursuit-fondling-fidelis-o-mkparu
i-remember-trying-not-to-disrupt-everyone-else-in-room-fumbling-around-trying-to-figure-out-how-to-use-medium-with-beautiful-model-disrobed-in-don-watson
do-you-believe-in-god-doctor-no-but-what-does-that-really-mean-im-fumbling-in-dark-struggling-to-make-something-out-but-ive-long-ceased-finding-that-original-albert-camus
to-see-stephen-spender-fumbling-with-our-rich-delicate-language-is-to-experience-all-horror-seeing-sevres-vase-in-hands-chimpanzee-evelyn-waugh
history-has-to-live-with-what-was-here-clutching-close-to-fumbling-all-we-had-it-is-dull-gruesome-how-we-die-unlike-writing-life-never-finishes-robert-lowell
i-now-hold-these-truths-to-be-diffident-that-which-you-held-dearly-is-clearly-frequented-by-charlatans-fumbling-just-like-debutante-gripping-you-am-i
our-fumbling-governments-response-since-beirut-during-both-republican-democratic-administrations-has-been-to-cut-run-to-flat-ignore-this-growing-threat-apparently-hoping-it-would
without-errors-wrong-turns-blind-alleys-without-doubling-back-misdirection-fumbling-chance-discoveries-there-was-not-one-bit-joy-in-walking-william-least-heatmoon
there-is-no-learning-without-some-difficulty-fumbling-if-you-want-to-keep-on-learning-you-must-keep-on-risking-failureall-your-life-john-w-gardner
you-can-see-neurosis-from-below-as-sickness-as-most-psychiatrists-see-it-or-you-can-understand-it-as-compassionate-man-might-respecting-neurosis-as-fumbling-inefficient-effort-to
he-slid-his-hands-to-back-her-neck-fumbling-for-necklaces-clasp-he-undid-it-held-chain-rubies-up-red-gold-in-flickering-candlelight-no-shackles-for-us-he-said-no-matter-how-rich-
Hive Queen: They never know anything. They don't have enough years in their little lives to come to an understanding of anything at all. And yet they think they understand. From earliest childhood, they delude themselves into thinking they comprehend the world, while all that's really going on is that they've got some primitive assumptions and prejudices. As they get older they learn a more elevated vocabulary in which to express their mindless pseudo- knowledge and bully other people into accepting their prejudices as if they were truth, but it all amounts to the same thing. Individually, human beings are all dolts. Pequenino: While collectively... Hive Queen: Collectively, they're a collection of dolts. But in all their scurrying around and pretending to be wise, throwing out idiotic half-understood theories about this and that, one or two of them will come up with some idea that is just a little bit closer to the truth than what was already known. And in a sort of fumbling trial and error, about half the time the truth actually rises to the top and becomes accepted by people who still don't understand it, who simply adopt it as a new prejudice to be trusted blindly until the next dolt accidentally comes up with an improvement.> Pequenino: So you're saying that no one is ever individually intelligent, and groups are even stupider than individuals- and yet by keeping so many fools engaged in pretending to be intelligent, they still come up with some of the same results that an intelligent species would come up with. Hive Queen: Exactly.

Orson Scott Card
hive-queen-they-never-know-anything-they-dont-have-enough-years-in-their-little-lives-to-come-to-understanding-anything-at-all-and-yet-they-think-they-understand-from-earliest-ch
Avalon is full of desperate people.' She bites at her lower lip this time, fumbling her hands, knitting her fingers into the bundle of plastic coin bags in her grasp. 'Are you implying that I'm desperate?' I say, one eyebrow tilting. 'You don't need to be desperate... you can have anyone... I... ' she trails off. Looking up and trying to search the line of shops for the bank. I repulse her, I make her want to run. Why is this so hard? I need to get inside of her, I need to know what she is thinking, what she is wanting. It surely isn't me she wants. Not to the extent that I... want her. 'You?' I entice her to finish her sentence but she doesn't, she stares off into the bustling crowds, memory flashing her eyes with a darkness. 'Madi wouldn't fumble like this.' Oh, she would fumble, but not in the way you are, Elli. 'You're not her, Elli.' I entice her again, trying to force the dark memory, the sadness from her. 'No, if I was, you wouldn't have wanted anyone else.' A breath hitches in her throat, she puts a hand over her mouth and says something else, her cheeks dance a shade of red that brightens and brightens until she apologises and quickens her pace. I chuckle, pulling at her arm and encircling one around her waist, pulling her back to me. Beneath my touch, her body trembles. When I raise my hand, my palm touching her cheek, I am sure she isn't breathing. 'I don't want anyone, Elli.' My eyes burn, consuming her with my gaze. She is like a frightful deer, struggling beneath me with a gaze that cannot quite meet mine. When she does, it is only for a brief second before falling down and all I see is the gentle flutter of her raven flashes. 'I told you. I want someone I cannot have.' 'That is a really harsh way of telling someone you're not interested.

C.M Maria
avalon-is-full-desperate-people-she-bites-at-her-lower-lip-this-time-fumbling-her-hands-knitting-her-fingers-into-bundle-plastic-coin-bags-in-her-grasp-are-you-implying-that-im-d
STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama's dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn't look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter's hands, with a writer's hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother's life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

Brenda Sutton Rose
stains-with-red-clay-between-my-toes-sun-setting-over-my-head-ghost-my-mother-blows-in-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-oh-lord-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-her-teeth-keys-piano-i-pl
Live or die, but don't poison everything... Well, death's been here for a long time - it has a hell of a lot to do with hell and suspicion of the eye and the religious objects and how I mourned them when they were made obscene by my dwarf-heart's doodle. The chief ingredient is mutilation. And mud, day after day, mud like a ritual, and the baby on the platter, cooked but still human, cooked also with little maggots, sewn onto it maybe by somebody's mother, the damn bitch! Even so, I kept right on going on, a sort of human statement, lugging myself as if I were a sawed-off body in the trunk, the steamer trunk. This became perjury of the soul. It became an outright lie and even though I dressed the body it was still naked, still killed. It was caught in the first place at birth, like a fish. But I play it, dressed it up, dressed it up like somebody's doll. Is life something you play? And all the time wanting to get rid of it? And further, everyone yelling at you to shut up. And no wonder! People don't like to be told that you're sick and then be forced to watch you come down with the hammer. Today life opened inside me like an egg and there inside after considerable digging I found the answer. What a bargain! There was the sun, her yolk moving feverishly, tumbling her prize - and you realize she does this daily! I'd known she was a purifier but I hadn't thought she was solid, hadn't known she was an answer. God! It's a dream, lovers sprouting in the yard like celery stalks and better, a husband straight as a redwood, two daughters, two sea urchings, picking roses off my hackles. If I'm on fire they dance around it and cook marshmallows. And if I'm ice they simply skate on me in little ballet costumes. Here, all along, thinking I was a killer, anointing myself daily with my little poisons. But no. I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar. Even with the witches' gymnastics they trust my incalculable city, my corruptible bed. O dearest three, I make a soft reply. The witch comes on and you paint her pink. I come with kisses in my hood and the sun, the smart one, rolling in my arms. So I say Live and turn my shadow three times round to feed our puppies as they come, the eight Dalmatians we didn't drown, despite the warnings: The abort! The destroy! Despite the pails of water that waited, to drown them, to pull them down like stones, they came, each one headfirst, blowing bubbles the color of cataract-blue and fumbling for the tiny tits. Just last week, eight Dalmatians, 3/4 of a lb., lined up like cord wood each like a birch tree. I promise to love more if they come, because in spite of cruelty and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens, I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann. The poison just didn't take. So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.

Anne Sexton
live-die-but-dont-poison-everything-well-deaths-been-here-for-long-time-it-has-hell-lot-to-do-with-hell-suspicion-eye-religious-objects-how-i-mourned-them-when-they-were-made-obs
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